He Leans In

He leans into life,
Taking everything on,
No half measures,
Or faked excitements.

He doesn’t lie,
Not about his feelings,
Not about his intent,
He is what he does.

Whole in every moment,
A guiding light,
A beacon of the present,
He is right there with you.

Watching you work,
Listening to your voice,
Copying your actions,
Always accepting without judgement.

He asks but one question,
Not with his words,
But with his entire being,
Do you love me as I love you?

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

God Asked

God asked the man,
Why did you choose to die?
I saw no point in existence,
I couldn’t fathom a reason why.

I couldn’t stay focused,
I couldn’t hold down work.
I’d just wait for the day to end,
to sleep away the murk.

Every day was the same,
I’d already lived it through.
What was the point of repeating
when there wasn’t anything new?

What about the small changes,
the gems of love and life?
What about the lessons learnt
from surviving hardships and strife?

True, I did feel most alive
when things were at their worst.
But how is that reason to live,
just hoping to be cursed?

I could handle the drama
but not the monotony,
nor the vagueness of existence,
nor humanity’s cacophony.

I would sit alone,
I would sit in the dark,
I would sit and listen and
my mind would remark.

Highlighting my failures,
reminding me of lost dreams.
Showing me bad outcomes
and my own devilish schemes.

Where were you God,
when I needed you the most?
Why’d you only start talking
now that I am a ghost?

I was talking the whole time.
I was in the warmth of the sun,
I was in your kid’s smiles,
their laughter and fun.

I was the crash of the waves,
the vision of the moon,
the spring flower’s scent,
the young lover’s boon.

I was the quenching of thirst,
the purr of a kitten,
the pillow at night,
the book well written.

I could go on
but I think you now know,
I was with you always,
even when you were low.

Ah God, you don’t get it,
your words were too easy to miss.
What with all the noise,
with our collective descent into the abyss.

How could I just stop and look?
How could I listen to the bird’s song?
How could I take a breath,
When everything was going wrong?

It isn’t my place to save you,
nor can I fix your life.
I can only remind you,
that there is something beyond the strife.

That even in the midst of suffering
there are small joys to behold.
But you are right my child,
perhaps I should have been more bold.

No God, I was also wrong.
You know this was my last thought,
I could fix every problem but this one.
Oh how my family will be distraught.

God thought for a moment,
then asked the man,
If I sent you back to Earth
would you change your plan?

I will do my best,
but I make no guarantee.
I will attempt to listen,
I will attempt to see.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

God Spoke

It’s easy to feel a little woke,
just after you’ve taken a toke.

To feel as if God spoke,
as if you’re the only one in on the joke,
as if you hold a beautiful truth, a fire to stoke.

Thus beseeched, you spread the message under religion’s cloak.

‘This is what you should do before you croak.’
‘This is how you should treat the downtrodden and the broke.’
‘And this is how a lady should treat her bloke.’

Some listen,
some provoke,
word spreads,
the masses convoke.

Pledging their swords,
falling under your yoke.

Pledging their houses,
their bills, and their bespoke.

Then, comes the final solution,
you begin your masterstroke.

You enlist the will of the people,
with His words you doth evoke.

You tell them your divine vision,
you tell them how you awoke,
you tell them of their enemies,
their neighbours who provoke.

Now they’re almost ready,
another push and they won’t revoke.

‘Gather the Kinsfolk
and force them to work.

In the fields and the factories,
in the forests cutting grand oak.

Make them build our weapons,
great waves of fire that will soak.

Then we’ll make our pilgrimage,
to leave nothing but smoke.

Do not hesitate to obey me.
do you think I misspoke?

Do not hesitate to obey me,
do you think my visions mere sunstroke?

Do not hesitate to obey me,
or you too will choke.’

Yes,
it is easy to feel as if God spoke.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

enraged

the world is too noisy
it asks too much
it never stops moving
and it’s never got enough

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Empires Fall

Empires fall, by the blood of friends.
Monarchs die, by the blood of friends.
Systems collapse, by the blood of friends.
Revolutions are pain.

A bullet in the back of the head for a select few, followed by starvation and desperation for millions more.

Oppression will inevitably return. The strong will rise. Self appointed kings by another name.

Hiding atrocity behind their new morals.

Hiding greed behind their new distribution methods.

Different faces.
Different words.
Same results.

Public privation.
Private ostentation.

They will tell us that the revolutionary heroes are to be honoured, but not replicated. That the time for violent action has passed. That we need to solidify our gains.

They will tell us that we are in it together. That in order to rebuild, we will all have to work. That our blood, sweat and tears are to be the mortar of the future. That our bodies are to be the stones.

They will glorify our sacrifices. A mass indoctrination of self-flagellation for the state.

Our pain will be our pleasure.
Our bond to the revolutionaries of the past.
Our holy pilgrimage.
Our right.
Our duty.
Our purpose.

We will police ourselves. Pulling down any and all who even so much as attempt to rise above the norm.

Equality of outcome for all.

Yet we will simultaneously accept our new leaders’ lavishness.

For they are men of action.

They are keeping us safe.
They are the bull front of the revolution.
They are the shield of security.
They are the sword of justice.
They protect us from the other.
They convert the heathens.
They spread the revolution.

They show us how our sacrifices at home will lead to our success globally.

They tell us that empires will fall, that monarchs will die, and that systems will collapse.

We just need to make more bullets for the backs of the heads, and more sons to put them there.

We just need to work more.
We just need to eat less.
We just need to sacrifice.

Revolutions are pain, and empires will fall.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Dissociated Rage

I wake,
Writhing against invisible bonds.
Whispered screams
Echo down the empty caverns of my mind.
The more I understand,
The more I wish for ignorance.
Pain and pleasure hurt the same,
Numbed inebriation my only relief.
Dissociated rage gives way to disjointed understandings.
Terrifying realisation gives way to impotent connections.
It hurts.
Everything hurts.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Click

Hold still. No you need to smile more.
Click.

How can a picture be perfect,
If people are perfectly posed?

How can it be a representation of reality,
When you stopped reality to create it?

How does crafting an ideal,
Justify the destruction of the moment?

And when you look back over the album
Do you think it will all be worth it?

Not like that, move over. Pause.
Click.

It didn’t just happen,
Every aspect of it contrived.

A list of people to invite,
A list of rituals to perform,
A list of words to say,
A list of food to eat,
A list of tears to shed,
A list of clothes to don,
A list of those to thank,
A list of songs to dance,
A list of jokes to play.

A list of pictures to pose,
To prove that the boxes were ticked.

A list of pictures to post,
To show that it was all done.

A list of pictures to paste,
To evoke the right emotion.

Shuffle over. Too much. Back a bit.
Click.

You got the perfect picture,
I hope it warms your heart.

You got the perfect picture,
I hope it is enough.

You got the perfect picture,
I hope you’ll get another.

You got the perfect picture,
and that’s all you’ve got.

Let’s do that again. Smile more this time.
Click.

The one you’ll show your friends,
To gloat about that perfect night.

The one you’ll show your family,
As a way to win the fight.

The one you show your kids,
To warm their darkest night.

The one you’ll show yourself,
When you want to remember it right.

Click.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Caged Animal

Isolation.
Pacing.
Caged.

No hunt.
No kill.
No thrill.

Domesticated.
Trained.
Punished.

I want to run.
I want to fight.
I want to fuck.

Your protection wasn’t asked for.
Your protection isn’t needed.
Your protection is a slow death.

I am safe.
Trapped behind bars.
Never missing a meal.

Stuck in a comfortable rut.
Stuck in your routine.
Stuck and on display.

Nature sanitised.
Whitewashed reality.
A parody.

Just one slip.
Just one mistake.
And you’re mine.

Devoured.
Devoured screaming.
Devoured alive.

Your fault.
You caged me.
You attempted to tame me.

You put me here.
You put me on display.
You dropped your guard.

Lulled.
Hypnotised.
Dazed.

Cornered.
Primal.
Rage.

This is evolution.
This is inevitability.
This is life.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

but a feather

i am but a feather
drifting between worlds
forced to float
on the whims of the wind

perhaps
one day
i’ll be allowed
to rest

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

If I was to die, would you cry?
Would you look up at the sky and scream why?
Would you lament being shy for not asking after I?

Please do not deny.

Just know that I am forgetting my why.
You don’t need to be a spy to see that I don’t have the energy to try.
Truth is, I’ve barely enough to sigh.
No longer spry, no longer able to apply, no longer able to fly.
How can I amplify? How can I stay wry? How can I make that pie?
I’m just a lonely guy, trying to imply the need for you to reply.

Perhaps I need to demystify before I say goodbye.
Perhaps I need to clarify before I horrify.
Perhaps I need to verify before I falsify with this note left to justify the lullaby.

Don’t worry. These words are a lie, just a sly attempt to identify.
Just an attempt to pre-emptively reclassify when you turn a blind eye.
Just an attempt to declassify and diversify the constant misapply.
Just an attempt to edify you on the thoughts that multiply, the need to certify, the ennui.

I see how others get by. They gratify and deify; they codify and fortify. Believing that the Mystify will specify how they should diversify.

But not me.

I can’t believe that rallying cry.
Life has no retry.
Just a constant attempt to scrape by under a dark sky.
Just a vain attempt to signify.
Just cause and effect bound to the wings of a butterfly. 

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Birdsong

waking up
to bitter coffee
and a birdsong

breath visible
in the crisp morning air
attention turns inward
finding nothing

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Behind A Smile Lies Darkness

Looks can be deceiving,
Behind a smile lies darkness,
An illness invisible.

Laughing through sorrow,
Acting through pain,
Lying to survive.

Learning to pretend,
Saying the right words,
Diverting attention.

I’m fine.
I’m just tired.
It’s nothing.
Don’t worry.
I’ve got this.
It’ll pass.

Self imposed exile,
Hiding from the world,
Hiding from myself.

Time to think,
Time to regret.
Time to practice my smile.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Memories Compress

Memories compress,
In the recess of the mind.
Thoughts confined,
By the passing of time.

A shine dedicated
To a past divine.
The horrors expressed
So totally mine.

Waiting untouched,
A defensive confine.
Dissociated reality,
A false sublime.

Seen from above,
I’m left in a bind.
A fist is raised,
Told to stay in line.

Flashes of vision,
Pain a bright shine.
A hollow city,
Dysfunctional and blind.

Memory as a curse,
A picture of crime.
Cause and effect,
We’re both doing time.

It’s all guess work,
Just a twisted game,
Played against the self,
On the battleground of shame.

I don’t know much,
My brain is maimed.
Functional enough
To get itself tamed.

Forever questioning,
Looking to blame.
No way to win,
Just playing the game.

Victory is simple,
Just stave off dying.
Survive the day,
Then breakdown crying.

Because memories compress,
Forgotten with time.
Until you’re stupid enough,
To open your mind.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Back To Scrolling

Mindless scrolling
Looking for validation online
Filling the time
Filling the void

Someone just liked my post
Fleeting happiness

Back to scrolling
Change apps
Scrolling again
Change apps back

Another like, but not from someone I like

I’m offended
Comment
I’m offended
Share

I wonder what she’s doing?
Damn, she’s still happy with him

Food as art
Bodies as art
Life as art
How unattainable
I’m jealous

You have memories from seven years ago
Cringe

10 things you won’t believe
10 times they got it wrong
10 posts to distract you from your own existence

Screen time report
Usage up from last week

Porn
Porn
Porn
Shame
Close all open tabs
Delete the latest hour

Half formed thought
Tweet
OMG, a retweet!
Just a bot

Bad news
More bad news
Memes about the news
Memes about memes
Sharing memes

I should work
Scroll
I should clean
Scroll
I should exercise
Scroll
I need to sleep
Scroll

Check one app
Check another
Check a third app
Recheck the first

Back to scrolling

---

This poem is from the book Bound to the Wings of a Butterfly

Atelophobia: The Fear Of Imperfection

The fear of imperfection.
The fear of not being good enough.

Crippling inaction.
Stuttered words.
No self-worth.

The fear of failure causing failure.
Not inability, talent or a lack of opportunity.

Just fear.
Just anxiety.
Just unattainable standards.

Standards put upon by myself.
Standards forced upon me by the world.

Others can fail.
Others can be imperfect.
Others can have fun.

Just stop.
Please don’t placate me.

I know ‘no one cares about that stuff’.
I know ‘we all make mistakes’.
I know ‘I’m only human’.

Reason doesn’t stop the thoughts.
By definition a phobia is illogical.

My only solace comes from the diagnosis.
Knowing that I am not alone.
Perfectly imperfect, together.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Angry

i’m angry
at you
for not being
more
like me

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Adulting, Would Not Recommend

Adulting, would not recommend.
There’s just too damn much to comprehend.
Work, work, work, work, no time for my friend.
Now look at that, my life’s about to end.

I do not rate,
My current adult state,
Always running late,
Trying to put food on my plate.

Money, money, money, I never have enough.
Not for the rent, bills or any fun stuff.
There’s no wonder why we are all so gruff,
Yelling on the inter-webs, acting so tuff.

It’s just back pain,
And weight gain.

It’s rushing all day,
With no time to play.

It’s the not knowing,
Yet having to keep going.

It’s our parents’ lack of understanding,
Of what our world is actually demanding,
Of our real struggle to maintain our standing,
No chance to get ahead, no interest compounding.

Boomers think they know the score,
They’re just lucky to be born after the war.
A time of prosperity let their incomes soar,
Making them think there will always be more.

Criticising us with self-righteous impunity,
For squandering a ‘glorious opportunity’.
In a world of growing disunity,
How can they expect such immunity?

Thing is, we can’t fight back,
There is no true enemy to attack.

Just another generation protecting their own,
And yelling from the safety of their home.

Besides when would we have the time to fight?
The third job’s got us up all night.

Adulting, I would not recommend.
But please let’s no longer pretend,
That our problems are gonna magically mend,
By venting with an angry tweet send.

You could protest it on the street,
With the 99% speaking with their feet,
Or perhaps a BLM meet,
Yell, scream and hope to defeat.

But the problem is that they have the power,
They can wait a longer hour.
They can direct the tear gas shower,
With the riot police to make us cower.

Also did I mention, the world is warming?
There’s racist divisions and politicians performing.
Economic collapse from COVID’s storming,
And European war is transforming.

Too many problems to simultaneously comprehend,
Let alone act with any hope to end.
There’s no opportunity to transcend,
Only ways to further offend.

Adulting, would not recommend.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Trying

Here I am,
Trying once again.

Trying to create something beautiful,
Trying to glimpse eternity,
Trying to distil a moment.

Here I am,
Trying once again.

Trying to impress,
Trying to state my worth,
Trying to be something more.

Here I am,
Trying once again.

Trying to reconcile talent with torment,
Trying to balance fun with functionality,
Trying to see the ramifications of reality.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Enraged

The world is too noisy,
It asks too much,
It never stops moving,
And it’s never got enough.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Prognosis

I’m sorry to confirm,
You have a case of thought worm.

Soon they will infect your brain,
With reverberated pain.

They will burrow and squirm
And spread their sperm.

Then their spawn will begin to drain
And eventually you’ll be driven insane

You gotta hold firm,
Cause you’re in it for the long term.

I say it again,
In vigilance you must remain.

Still, you’re gonna end up infirm,
Cause you’re infected by a thought worm.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly